


That's my shirt!

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Sci-Ops Era (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.), UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 09:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14101959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: For anon request: "That's my shirt!" and "Give it back!" -- Thirsty FS, Sci-Ops era, canon divergent





	That's my shirt!

They’re so busy setting up for the housewarming party, then welcoming the guests and helping them with their coats, then darting around the apartment to make sure nothing breaks and there are enough drinks and snacks, that it’s not until well past ten that Fitz notices.

He’d been on his way to find Jemma, to tell her that he would take over ice cube duty for an hour so she could finally have a drink and dance with their friends. But as he reaches the table at the side of their dark, cramped living room, he blinks in recognition.

“Is that my shirt?”

Jemma turns to face him. No doubt, it _is_ his shirt: his mum had bought it for him before he left for the Academy. Five years later, it’s slightly too snug for him, but he’s not yet given up on wearing it.

“What?” Jemma shouts over the music.

“Is that my shirt?” he yells back.

“Fitz, I can’t hear—”

“That’s my shirt!” he bellows, pointing to the dark green button-up with its adorable little elephant pattern. “Give it back!”

“Fitz, I can’t—” Jemma sighs dramatically and grabs his hand. “Come on.”

She guides him through the press of people, her finger, slightly wet and cold from the ice, an anchor amidst the writhing bodies. She unlocks her bedroom door – this may be the first house party they’ve thrown but they’ve attended enough to know to lock everything but the bathroom – and drags him in with her.

“I can’t decide whether to be peeved at the volume or delighted that we’ve orchestrated such a smash success,” she chortles as she locks the door behind her again. “Now, what were you attempting to convey back there?”

“That’s my shirt,” he repeats, gesturing to it once more, but the ferocity has gone out of his voice. Under the fairy lights Jemma’s strung around her room, he can see that not only has she nicked one of his shirts, but she’s also got on one of his ties, a skinny grey one that encircles her neck and disappears into the dip of the shirt.

“What’s the problem? You don’t like it on me?” Jemma frowns down at the shirt then up at him, all innocent concern.

Of course, he can’t be honest about why he doesn’t like her wearing his shirt. He doesn’t like it because he likes it a bit _too_ much, because it contours her in such different ways from him, because seeing his clothes pressed to her body that way makes him imagine his hands, his lips, his chest being pressed to her the same way.

“You’ll stretch it,” he falters, which isn’t even a good excuse because it’s too tight for him and a bit of a stretch would make it fit better. Not that he’ll ever be able to wear it again without imagining the way her breasts fill it out… “Give it back.”

Jemma’s lips twitch and she looks at him with a funny expression. “You want it back?”

“That’s bloody right, I do.”

Jemma lifts her chin and holds his gaze. “Then you’ll have to take it off me.”

 

 

It’s a gamble, Jemma knows. If she has misread his interest and arousal, either today or three weeks ago, this could be very uncomfortable. Three weeks ago she’d emerged wearing one of his jumpers over leggings and he’d gone all red and stammered and averted his eyes, though she caught him taking little peeks with his mouth slightly open throughout the morning. That fascinating evidence had been the impetus for tonight’s little get-up, and thus far Fitz is responding brilliantly. It could go very badly. He might not be at all interested in her. But, she hopes, it could also be the confrontation they need to overcome the taut electricity between them.

“Wh-what?” he chokes, watching her with wide eyes. His curls are lit from behind by the fairy lights and he looks positively angelic. Jemma feels a bit guilty for wanting to debauch him.

“You heard me,” she says, voice low. “I like this shirt. I like wearing it. I don’t want to give it back. You’ll have to take it off me if you want it.”

They stare at each other in the half-lit bedroom, their silence juxtaposed with the throbbing bass from the next room.

Fitz sucks his lower lip in, processing, thinking.

The longer he takes, the more the coil of desire in her stomach is turning to nerves. She’s about to buckle, to laugh and tell him she’s kidding, to rush in embarrassment to her closet and change, when Fitz takes a step forward.

“Is that so?” he murmurs. Jemma shivers at the gravelly quality of his voice. She can only nod jerkily in reply.

He walks slowly towards her, never breaking her gaze. She can see he’s terrified – as terrified as she is, at least – but he keeps coming, and she can see his the bulge of his throat bob several times as he swallows. If he’s not aroused, Jemma will return her biology PhD and hang up her lab coat.

He stops when his chest touches the button at the broadest point of her breasts. If she breathes deeply, she’ll press herself against him a bit more. She’s wearing flats so he has to look up at him, at his smooth face so close to hers, at his long lashes brushing his cheeks as he blinks down at her.

“Well?” she manages to whisper, delighting in the way he inhales as her breath hits his chin. “Are you going to do something about it?”

His hands hover at the top button before he seems to reconsider. Instead, he starts at the bottom, fingers close to the clasp of her trousers, exposing her stomach first. He squeezes each button through its hole achingly slowly, never looking away from her eyes. The first touch of the air on her skin makes her gasp and Fitz rocks forward, seemingly drawn to the sound.

He’s frustratingly careful to not actually touch her. She can feel the pressure of his fingertips through the shirt, but the instant the button is out, he moves to the next one, never lingering on her skin.

At the last button, the shirt flutters open, revealing the tie and just a bit of each cup of her bra. She follows his gaze downward, imagining the heat of his eyes on her body, then shrugs, rolling her shoulders to accent her chest and send the shirt down to her wrists.

Fitz opens his mouth, whether involuntarily or to try to say something, but Jemma’s not done. Keeping the shirt slung between her wrists so she’s partially bound, she raises her arms up and over Fitz’s shoulders, bringing the shirt down behind his back. It’s the yawn and stretch at the cinema on a much more pornographic level. Now, her arms around him, she works the shirt slowly off her wrists, letting it flutter to the ground and settling her hands on his lower back, just above his arse.

“There,” she breathes, jutting her chin challengingly up at him, “it’s off.”

Fitz’s chest is heaving faster than the rhythm of the music outside. He catches the end of her tie and rolls it between his fingers. “You know,” he murmurs, tugging on the fabric a bit, drawing Jemma even closer in the rapidly-vanishing few inches between them, “I think this is mine too.”

This time he breaks the touch boundary. He releases the tip of the tie and follows its length up her body, holding the fabric in his hand, his forefinger brushing against her stomach and sending a ripple of convulsing pleasure through her abdomen. When he reaches the top, he holds her firmly – gently, still, but with confidence – by the back of the neck and undoes her careful knot with his free hand. Once the tie is open, he slides it around her neck, the silk gliding over her shoulder and collarbone and chest.

The tie slithers to the ground, forgotten as quickly as the shirt that came before it.

 

 

For a moment, once the tie is gone, Fitz is at a loss for how to proceed, their pretense for this intimacy finished. He finds himself feeling naked, though Jemma is the one standing there in just her bra and trousers. He wonders if he should just kiss her.

Jemma saves him – saves them both, saves the moment. Sliding her hands around from his back to his hips, she presses their lower bodies together and whispers, looking up at him very seriously, “I think this bra might be yours as well. Maybe you should take it off too.”

At that, Fitz can’t help himself: he bursts out laughing. Jemma looks put out for a moment, as gaiety was clearly not the result she’d been angling for with her sexy come-ons, but then Fitz enfolds her in both arms and kisses her, lightheaded from delight.  


End file.
